


The Stories Told On Our Skin

by lapsus_calami



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, Gen, Sam is an idiot but he tries, Suicide Attempt, and Dean is a sad sad soul but he tries too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s a creature of habit and they never did have the most clothes growing up. So when Sam’s dragged back into the hunting life, Dean’s almost exactly as Sam remembered him right down to the leather coat, torn jeans, silver ring and amulet. Except for the wristbands Dean never takes off; those are new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stories Told On Our Skin

**Author's Note:**

> So, I uncovered this in my folder of Supernatural things, and, I dunno, finally plucked up the courage to post it. 
> 
> If you haven't **read the tags** then you should **read the tags**. 
> 
> Um, this is like a dual timeline with one part of the story being told in the past and another in the present. So don't get too confused by that. I'm sure you won't; you're all wonderfully intelligent people so you'll figure it out.

** The Stories Told On Our Skin **

The idea hit him suddenly. Well not entirely, he’d entertained the thought before. Marveled over how simple it’d be. It wouldn’t even be all that hard to make it look like a hunting accident. An ‘Oops, that was stupid, my bad’ kind of thing. But _this_ idea hit him with such a force that he decided upon it immediately. Now. Right now. He was gonna do this right now. His breathing quickened as he grabbed clothing he wouldn’t need, just incase Bobby came checking on him. He snagged his favorite bowie knife and shut himself in the bathroom with shaking hands. For the first time in months, _months,_ his head felt clear, like he was in control and had a plan, a purpose.

He shucked his shirts off, fingers trembling as he tugged off the bracelets, ones he and Sam had gotten in that stupid souvenir store down in Texas that one day forever ago. He dropped the bracelets like they were on fire, tossing them in the corner of the room. He never liked the damn things anyway.

His chest heaved and the person staring out at him from the mirror kind of scared him. Like he couldn't recognize himself. The person in the mirror was determined and lost. Desperate.

He tore his gaze away and picked up the blade. Now.

* * *

Dean was a creature of habit. Always has been and probably always would be, Sam was sure. For all his spontaneity Dean liked his routines. Hence the same five music albums over and over, and the same meal he ordered at every diner across the country, and the way he only seemed to have four outfits of changing colors but general same look. To be fair, they never did have the most clothes growing up either.

So Sam wasn’t surprised to find Dean almost exactly as Sam remembered him right down to the leather coat, torn jeans, silver ring and amulet hanging around his neck. In fact, Sam was so used to his image of Dean that it took a few days—once they weren’t after a Woman in White or desperately searching all over Palo Alto for a lead on the demon—for Sam to realize something was off. And it took a few more hours for him to identify it as the thick wristbands Dean never took off and usually kept covered with his coat or shirts. Those were new.

The one on his right arm was solid brown leather, sitting just under the two elephant hair bracelets Dean always wore, ones that matched Sam’s own, and extending three or four inches up Dean’s forearm. Sam thought it looked uncomfortable and restrictive, but it was apparently supple enough leather that it never constricted Dean’s range of motion too much.

The band on his left arm was larger, extending up Dean’s arm a good five or six inches, but less obstructive looking, comprised of hundreds of thin pieces of black leather woven intricately together. Loose and somewhat see through but still obscuring the skin beneath it.

After getting over his shock of realizing they existed, Sam decided they actually looked pretty neat and wondered where Dean had gotten them. Evidently they were rather meaningful if Dean’s attachment to them was anything to go by.

He asked after one of their successful hunts, not even realizing he was going to ask or that he’d really been thinking about it, but the question just slipped out. Dean had dug a good part of the grave and it had been hot so he’d been stripped down to a grey t-shirt and when they’d gotten back to the Impala the bands were suddenly right _there._ So Sam asked.

“Hey, Dean. Where’d those wrist bands come from?”

An innocent question Sam thought.

But it clammed Dean up tight, evaporated all the good that had been in his mood and the music was suddenly too loud for Sam to even think. Then and there the wristbands had become a symbol of something bad. Sam made a vow to never ask again and wondered who Dean had gotten so close to while he’d been at Stanford and why Dean had to loose a good number of the people he let himself care about. He wondered if the mystery person had died or just left Dean the way he and Dad had.

Sam always soured at that thought and forcefully shoved it away.

* * *

The first nick into his skin startled him a bit and for a moment he almost lost his resolve. But he recovered it quickly and switched hands; his right hand was steadier. He swallowed and pushed the tip into his flesh, sucking in a quick breath and clamping his jaw down on his whimpers. Grown ass men didn’t fucking whimper.

He shoved the blade in deeper dragging it up his arm. It hurt like a bitch, enough that he nearly dropped the knife, but he growled and shoved in further instead, mesmerized by the river of red welling from the cut. About six inches up he fumbled the knife again and let it fall from his arm. He watched the blood flow sluggishly for a few minutes, mind helpfully recalling all the information he had about how long it took to bleed out from a wrist cut. They really weren’t all that dangerous. Had to be a certain depth, held at a certain angle and even then it was slow, the veins in the wrist not being central to anything. But maybe that was the point here. Slow. Moderately painful. Yeah, that was the whole point wasn’t it?

He wrapped his left hand around the blade, noting the shaking and the slippery blood making his grip weak. Screw it. Not like they had to be pretty cuts or anything.

Digging the blade into his right arm was harder. The knife kept slipping and it hurt. He didn’t think he was able to get as deep, and it definitely wasn’t as long as the other one when the knife fell from his grip to the floor. He leaned against the counter, watching the blood trickle over his hands and into the sink, staining the white porcelain a pinkish color.

He raised his eyes to the mirror, wondering, just wondering, who or _what_ he would see.

* * *

Sam managed to put the wristbands out of his mind. The majority of the time they were covered by Dean’s shirt or coat so it was out of sight out of mind, and Sam was thankful for that.

Then there was a case in Hinesville, Oregon and shit hit the fan figuratively speaking. The spirit favored people with suicidal tendencies and was having an absolute field day at the mental institution. Dean was unusually cranky and dedicated, barely giving even a glance at the number of hot waitresses or nurses tossing interested looks his way. He plowed straight into the hunt, doing more research than Sam for once. Sam was okay with it though; it gave him ample time to sit back, study his brother, and start to reach some unsavory conclusions.

Dean threw himself into the hunt with a fervor Sam only remembered ever seeing from their dad, and he worked out the pattern and identified the spirit in less than two days. Then he was hauling Sam to the mental hospital again, flashing badges and asking to speak with the likely next victim. Sam didn’t know why they were wasting time talking to the victim if they knew who the ghost was already. But Dean insisted on speaking to her first and made Sam wait outside while he did.

Then they hauled ass over to the cemetery, in the middle of the goddamn day, and Dean dug the grave in record time, salting and burning the bones with a look of grim satisfaction that chilled Sam to the core as he stared at the bands wrapped around Dean’s wrists, darkened somewhat around the edges where they’d absorbed sweat. They mocked him silently and Sam’s stomach lurched.

The next day Dean was gone when Sam woke up. He panicked for a few minutes before seeing the note scribbled on motel stationary telling him Dean went on food run. He waited ten minutes before deciding something felt off and dressing to leave the room. Dean wasn’t at the diner down the street or the coffee shop one block over, and Sam wasn’t sure what made him catch the bus downtown to the mental hospital but he went with it all the same.

He flashed the same badge he did yesterday, and wasn’t surprised when the receptionist informed him his partner was already here speaking to the same girl. It took Sam a moment to drag up her name: Millie Rhodes. Sam smiled and thanked the women, feet following the path from yesterday as he headed to Millie’s room.

Sam slowed just outside the door; perversely glad it was open a couple inches. The angle was just right too, letting him see Dean, dressed casually like Sam with sleeves rolled up and wristbands clearly visible, and Millie without them noticing his eavesdropping. He felt only somewhat guilty, curiosity and a burning need to know overcoming the feeling easily.

Dean was talking softly and Millie seemed to be listening with all her being, tears slipping down her face. Sam had to lean closer, ears straining to pick up Dean’s voice.

“…so anyway it’s a big decision and not one to be taken lightly. And I know you know that. God, I know you do, but all I’m saying is before, before you do something, you should try and be absolutely certain that it’s what you want. Because sometimes you might not get another chance or a chance to change your mind.

“And I’m not stupid. Sometimes you are absolutely, a hundred percent sure that it’s what you want until the very last second and you realize that it isn’t.”

* * *

The person staring out at him from the mirror still scared him. Empty. That was what the person in the mirror was. He was empty.

He blinked and dropped his head, tears burning. He wiped at his face, wincing at the sting in his arm and turned away from the mirror. His gaze landed instead on the black bracelet lying abandoned on the floor. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, suddenly unable to breathe. Twisting back to the mirror he stared at his amulet gleaming in the low light, nestled against his sternum. Jesus, what would Sammy think?

That his big brother lost it? Couldn’t tough it out a little? Fuck, would Sam ever even _know_? He hadn’t talked to Sam since the brat hauled ass to California leaving him with a fallout zone the size of China to deal with. And hell if it hadn’t been the most god-awful two and a half months of his life. And that was saying something.

But there were still loads of things he wanted to tell Sam, more and more things making themselves known with each drop of blood that dripped from his hands. And he’d wanted to go see Sam, hadn’t he? Dad had told him no, flat out forbidden it along with phone calls or texts and emails. But Dad wasn’t here; Dad had left him too. So he was on his own and didn’t that make _him_ the one in charge? So he could call Sam if he wanted. Hell, he could drive to Palo Alto, right up to the dorm where Sam was staying, waltz in, and knock on his brother’s door. Let the dense bastard know that just because he wanted out of the hunting life didn’t mean he had to loose Dean too. Didn't mean Dean had to loose Sam. Maybe according to Dad’s rules, but Dean was playing by his own rules now. At least as far as Sammy was concerned. And his rules said Sammy wasn’t off limits. He could leave tonight and be there in a day probably. Maybe even less. Damn, the look on Sam’s face would be downright priceless.

He wasn’t even aware he’d been crying, but the half hysterical laugh that forced it’s way through his mouth kind of shocked him. First bit of sound he’d heard himself make in months. He wiped his hands over his face, doing more harm than good and felt himself settle a bit more. He _could_ see Sam; and that thought right there had him soaring.

It took only a step to the door for him to think that maybe, possibly, it wasn’t the thought alone that had him feeling so weightless and the enormity of what he’d done—how the hell had he even forgotten?—sunk in deep and quick. It was just his luck that the moment he decided to go see Sam, he fucked it up for himself and was going to bleed out in a dingy bathroom. Typical. Moronic. Shit. Shit. Goddamn shit.

Breathing shallowly Dean snatched the hand towel from the rack and clamped it down on his left arm; sure that one was bleeding the heaviest.

“Bobby?” It was a faint imitation of his voice, hoarse from disuse, and far to quiet.

He clamped down harder on the towel and looked in the mirror, startled to see a terrified boy staring back at him.

“Bobby!”

* * *

Millie nodded and reached out slowly, just barely touching one of the wristbands. Sam frowned, mind working through the information slowly and shying away from the answer he already knew.

“What changed your mind?” Millie asked, almost too quiet for Sam to hear. He was unaware of the fact that he was steadily moving closer to the door until his toe hit it with a dull thud. He cursed and pulled back, but Dean had already glanced over and his stare stopped Sam in his tracks. It felt like a punch to his gut and Sam braced himself, but Dean’s gaze simply slid away, back to Millie and he answered sincerely, “I remembered I had someone to live for.”

* * *

He didn’t know how long he yelled for Bobby, ears ringing so he couldn’t even really hear himself shouting. His mind was swirling in on itself, a confusing mess of memories and thoughts all vying for recognition. He barely even noticed when Bobby answered, footsteps thundering up the stairs and yanking the bathroom door open with a bottle of holy water and sawed off shotgun in hand.

It took Bobby all of two seconds to realize the only danger in the bathroom was _him_. Him, clutching a bloodied towel in bloodied hands, blood and tears smeared across his face, chest heaving like he’d just ran a marathon instead of stood in a bathroom.

“Dean? Balls. What…”

He could see the moment it clicked in Bobby’s head. The figurative light bulb went off and all he could do was internally scream for the man to help him, please God, help him.

Bobby dragged him from the bathroom swearing up and down about the stupidity of Winchesters. The words stung but he was thankful for the small spark of hurt they ignited, it gave him something to focus on as Bobby returned and yanked on his arms. He was sure he imagined the slight squeeze Bobby gave his hands before setting to work cleaning and stitching. First the left arm and then the right arm.

Bobby wouldn’t look at him the whole time, working to actively avoid meeting his gaze and he worried that maybe Bobby was disappointed in him. He very nearly laughed the thought away, stopped only by the unmovable lump lodged in his throat. Of course Bobby was disappointed in him; that was what he did. Disappointed people. But that was okay. Because the one person that actually mattered (well maybe two because Dad would never know either if he had his way) would never, _ever_ know. Sam would never know and he could deal with everyone else. Well Bobby, he could deal with Bobby because it wasn’t like there really was anyone else besides Bobby, Sam, and Dad.

Bobby finished and gathered up the bloody towel and medical supplies, walking into the bathroom without a word. He stayed where Bobby left him, feeling too weightless to move, too unsteady. He wondered how much blood he actually lost, wondered how much of this odd state of mind, of this weird, detached, floaty feeling, could be attributed to blood loss and how much was the crushing relief still washing over him making him shaky and disconnected.

He stayed seated on the edge of the bed until Bobby came back with a wet washcloth, eyes oddly puffy and red. He felt the bitter taste of guilt rush through him but he was used to it and quickly tamped it down. He knew how to handle this. He could handle this.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to push out, tongue still feeling foreign in his own mouth, like it wasn’t his own. “Sorry.”

Bobby shook his head, clasping Dean’s face in his hands. “Don’t apologize, you idjit. Just, jus’,” Bobby didn’t say anymore, simply gave Dean’s neck one more hard squeeze before beginning to clean him up with the washcloth.

But it was okay. Dean didn’t know what to say either. 

* * *

Dean said nothing as he left Millie’s room, brushing by Sam without a word and leaving Sam to rush and catch up. Dean ignored him all the way to the car before finally acknowledging Sam’s questioning look.

“We’re not talking about this,” he said gruffly, shoving a tape into the deck and turning it up way too loud. And as far as Dean was concerned that was the end of the conversation. They didn’t talk about it.

For three days.

Three days later they were seated across from each other at a diner, Dean munching happily on a bacon cheeseburger and Sam staring imploringly at him. Halfway through his sandwich Dean swore and shoved his plate away stalking over to pay before leaving. Sam stared after him stunned for a few minutes before scrambling out of his seat and out the door when the Impala’s engine gunned and he thought for one irrational second Dean would actually leave him there.

But Dean was waiting. He waited until Sam sat down and pulled his door closed to take off, gunning the engine faster than legal out of the town. Dean drove for over an hour before pulling off on the side of the road next to an open field. There was no one around but them for miles and the hot sun shone down, instantly heating the inside of the car as Dean switched the ignition off and climbed out.

Sam followed suit, slowly standing and closing his door. Dean shoved his door shut and stalked around the car, shucking off his coat as he went. Sam watched silently, wished Dean would explain what he was doing but knowing better than to speak. Dean unbuttoned one cuff of his over shirt then the other, methodically rolling both sleeves up to his elbow until his forearms and wristbands were exposed. He paused then, biting his lip and glancing up at Sam, seemed to reach a decision, and slowly held both arms out to Sam.

* * *

Bobby wouldn’t leave him alone. For five days Bobby tailed him everywhere and watched his every move. Even made him shower and use the toilet with the door slightly ajar and Bobby right outside. Bobby also made Dean sleep in the queen bed with him, and Dean refused to admit even to himself how much better he slept with a living and breathing person next to him.

Bobby took all his weapons, all his knives and guns, even Dean’s lighter and goddamn razor, which he gave back only for supervised shaving every other day. Dean-proofing the rest of the house was hard, Dean never realized how much shit in Bobby’s house could be damaging, but Bobby methodically removed every item he thought Dean could use and put them somewhere secret. Dean was stuck between feeling thankful at the removal of temptation and testy at being so overtly coddled.

After a while Bobby slowly relaxed a little, allowing Dean more and more freedom though he still never let Dean alone for longer than ten minutes and still monitored his activity with sharp things.

Dean reached a point of anger and bitterness at the forced interaction and lack of privacy where he found himself actually regretting calling for the man, regretting that he hadn’t mustered up the guts to go all the way through with it and that thought scared him enough that he didn’t let himself out of Bobby’s sight for a few days.

The cuts were painful, carefully stitched up and tended to, but they still limited his range of motion and pulled uncomfortably. An added insult to the discomfort from his thigh wound. Bobby just glared at him when he mentioned it one day, expression conveying that he thought Dean was getting what had been coming to him, and that shut Dean right up about it. (And if Bobby insisted on rubbing a different ointment on later that night he wasn’t going to mention it and neither would Bobby.)

* * *

Sam swallowed glancing from Dean’s face to his arms, unsure for a moment what Dean was offering. Dean took a deep breath and stepped closer, his fingers brushing Sam’s jacket. Sam stared at his brother’s hands for a moment before raising his gaze to the watch on Dean’s left arm, taking a good and proper look at the black leather strands wrapped almost lovingly around the wrist. Now that he was looking so close he could see the four small back buttons that held the band on. He looked over to the other hand, raking his gaze over the very familiar elephant hair bracelets before taking in the leather cuff, three golden snaps gleaming in the sunlight. Mottled brown, soft looking, solid with simple yet elegant designs etched in it. Sam recognized a few as protective and wondered once again where Dean had gotten it.

Tentatively Sam reached up, giving his brother plenty of time to change his mind, to grasp Dean’s wrist running his fingers gently over the designs etched in the leather that was even softer than it looked. He was struck suddenly by how intimate the moment was, something he hadn’t had with anyone, let alone _Dean_ , in so long.

He swallowed again, ran his fingers over the bracelets then tugged at the snaps. They came free easily enough and Sam glanced at Dean’s face, a tad surprised to see his brother looking at him steadily. He pulled the leather cuff free and closed his eyes at what it revealed.

Dean was staring at him like a challenge, like he was waiting for a certain reaction and Sam truly didn’t know what Dean wanted or expected him to do. So he said nothing and simply traced the scar with a hesitant finger. Hit with a sudden need to see all the physical damage, he set the brown wristband on the roof of the Impala, surer fingers making quick work of the four snaps of the other band. This scar was longer, thicker; the cut had probably been deeper. No doubt it had bled more.

Sam blinked, wondered when his vision had gotten so blurry. He still didn't know what to say and found he couldn’t look at Dean. Didn’t want his brother to see the pain his dumbass decision was causing. He wondered suddenly if he would have ever known if Dean had succeeded. Would Dad have ever called him? And how had Dad let something like this happen in the first place?

Sam, of course, knew the answer to that. Dad hadn’t been with Dean. So Dean had been alone. Could have died in a nameless motel room and Sam would have never fucking known.

Dean didn’t protest when Sam stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. Just clutched back after a moment and shushed Sam gently as he cried. Sam wasn’t even sure why, Dean was alive, was right here, but the image wouldn’t leave Sam’s head and he was suddenly terrified of a possibility.

“It’s okay, Sammy. It’s okay.”

Sam shook his head and clutched Dean’s shirt, not willing to let go now or ever.

* * *

“I think I’m gonna call Sam.” Dean blurted the words out before bed one night. Bobby’s hands stilled for a second and Dean held his breath.

But all Bobby said was, “Oh?” before he went right back to checking the stitches and rubbing the ointment gently over the cuts.

“Yeah, I mean, I haven’t heard from him since he left that voicemail to say he made it to Stanford, and I think it would be okay for me to call, right?” he rambled, words tumbling out faster than he could stop them. “Nothin’ bad about it. Just, I just wanna know how things are going, you know? Check in and make sure he’s all right. Ask what his roommate’s like and if he has a girlfriend yet and how many parties he’s gone to and if he’s showin’ everyone up in his classes and you and I both know he is and—”

Bobby chuckled pushing Dean back to lie on the bed. “Take a breath, Dean. I think that’s a good idea if you’re sure.”

Dean nodded warmth and relief flooding through him, reviving him just a little more. “I’m sure.”

* * *

“Tell me what happened.”

The request was soft, barely spoken but audible to both brothers as they sat on the hood of the Impala staring up at the star speckled sky above them. Sam didn’t have to specify what he was talking about, what he finally felt prepared to ask. For a moment Sam was sure Dean was going to ignore him, but his brother just took a sip of his beer, moonlight glinting off the gold snap of the band. Then he started to talk. Slow and lax, but deliberate.

“It was rough after you left, Sammy. Not gonna lie. Me and Dad…we didn’t handle it so well. Lots of drinking. Lots of regretted actions. Lots of silence and super healthy passive aggressiveness.”

“Dean,” Sam broke in, guilt churning anew and bitter tasting in his mouth. Barely two sentences in and he was regretting having asked. Not sure he really wanted to know. He’d spent a good amount of time at Stanford thinking about how Dean and Dad handled his leaving and then forcing it from his thoughts and burying it in his mind. Hearing Dean talk about it so candidly, lying out, not so much in words but in tone, how he and Dad coped, it hurt more than Sam ever thought it would.

Dean would have withdrawn, got quiet and skittish, viciously lashed out when provoked, deliberately pushing all the minute buttons that would cause the most hurt. And Dad would have provoked then got angry, yelled, maybe hit, and run like he always did when problems with family got to be too much. One pushing the other away in a defense mechanism and the other leaving, unable to see the cry for help that it was through his own grief and anger; neither achieving what they really wanted or needed. “I never meant, I mean, I’m,” he started not even sure what he was trying to say.

“Not saying it to blame you or anything, Sam.” Dean said openly. “Just sayin’ it how it was, okay? Givin’ you context and shit. Just, jus’ shut up and listen.”

Sam nodded, taking a long pull of his own beer. He was sure he’d need it.

“So, uh, there was this one hunt and I couldn’t warn Dad fast enough ‘cause, well I couldn’t warn him and, uh, I kind of jumped in front of him instead of yelling for him to move. Took a knock to the head and claw to the thigh. Lost a good bit of blood, but I was okay. I was out of commission though, for at least a couple of weeks. Limited mobility. Dad was getting pretty pissed at me anyway so he, uh, he took me to Bobby’s. Dropped me off and hightailed it outta there. Bobby was livid, man, you shoulda seen it. Dad drops me off in the middle of the night and leaves without so much as a sayonara?”

Dean chuckled and took another drink. “Yeah. So anyway, I was…well I shouldn’t sugarcoat it. I was in what shrinks would call a ‘dark place’.” He was silent for a long moment, taking another pull from his bottle and staring with an intensity that was unnerving out over the field, and Sam didn’t know what to say to that. “You know, after you first left Dad told me to not call you or text you or visit you?” Dean said suddenly.

Sam shook his head startled. “No, I didn’t know that. I just thought…”

Dean nodded like he expected the answer. “Yeah. And I listened,” he said bitterly.

“No,” Sam said scrambling through his memories. He remembered when Dean had called. Right in the middle of his goddamn class where he’d been testing. The professor had glared at him, but Sam had taken the call and had an awkward conversation about family emergencies after. He remembered the spike of fear that had been dulled by irritation once he realized Dean was fine and covered the relief and gladness that his brother had finally called. “You called…you called eight months…”

“When Dad dropped me off I barely had my head screwed on straight,” Dean said ignoring Sam’s half finished sentence. “Well, even before that to be honest. I was scaring myself sometimes, kept looking at all the weapons we had or thinking about the hunts and how easy it would be.”

Sam swallowed, a heavy feeling settling in his gut and getting with a pang how hard this was going to be to hear even knowing already what had happened.

“I just kept pushing it all away, you know? Thought that if I ignored it enough it would go away. But when I was at Bobby’s it just got worse. I couldn’t even focus on the cars or anything. Felt like my head was constantly wandering off, getting lost inside itself and one day I’m just sittin’ in my room and I get an idea, this idea,” Dean said holding up a hand to show the wristband, “and it just clicks. So I don’t even think about it. And I’m in that bathroom and the next thing I know I’m staring at a person I don’t recognize in the mirror with blood running down my hands and for just a moment I was really, really, I don’t know, not happy, but content. I was content.”

Sam sucked in a careful breath, pinching the bridge of his nose against the tears threatening again. Screw it. He was allowed to cry a little. His brother had tried to kill himself. Knowing he’d been at Bobby’s, Sam had a pretty good idea who had stitched Dean up and made a mental note to get the man the best scotch he could afford, no the best scotch he could _acquire_ , and give him a big hug the next time Sam saw him.

“And then,” Dean continued, pausing a moment. “Then I saw this,” he shook his right wrist again smiling a little as the elephant hair bracelet flopped around a some before reaching up to fiddle with his amulet, “and you know that was the dumbest souvenir shop ever? I saw this and, I don’t know, man, it was like all this stuff, all these reasons for why I _shouldn’t_ suddenly came flooding out and I realized that at that point _I_ was in charge of me and that if I wanted to talk to you or visit you then I could goddamn go ahead and do that. And, I don’t know, I can’t explain it exactly but I realized I really, _really_ didn’t want to die. All useful information I coulda used a bit sooner.” He stopped, smiling faintly and shaking his head.

“And then Bobby found you?” Sam asked, mouth dry and eager for Dean to finish his story.

“Nah,” Dean said. “No. I, I just started yelling for him, loud as I could. He told me later he’d just come into the house for another beer because his fridge in the shop had broken the day before. When he came in and heard me he thought there was something in the house. I hadn’t spoken to him at all since I arrived so I guess he had a right to be so freaked. I mean, he was more freaked when he actually found me but…he stitched me up good as new and wouldn’t let me out of his sight for more than a few minutes for the longest time.” Dean laughed quietly. “Anyway, a week or so after that is when I called you.”

“Fuck,” Sam swore softly, cradling his head in his hands. Dean had called practically right after he’d tried to kill himself and all Sam had said was—

“Sammy?”

“I’m sorry,” Sam bit out.

“What?” Dean sounded floored, like he couldn’t imagine what Sam had to be sorry for.

“You called me after, after _that_ , and all I did was bitch at you for calling during one of my tests and, oh god, I told you not to call unless one of you was dying.” For a moment Sam felt like he was going to be sick, he actually sat up prepared to do so, but Dean laughed, a full on belly laugh and Sam decided confusion won out over vomiting.

“Sam, it’s fine,” Dean said.

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is. It’s in the past. By gones be by gones and what not. You were always real touchy if I interrupted you; you didn’t mean it. ‘Sides it’s not like I listened anyway. Though I did get ahold of your schedule ‘cause I felt bad. ”

“Great, I made you feel bad. Good job, self,” Sam muttered standing from the hood, needing a little distance between him and his brother.

Dean huffed angrily and slid off the hood. “Sam, I’m not telling you this so you can play pity party in hindsight and shit. I’m not fragile and gonna break ‘cause my fucking feelings get hurt, okay? In a moment of _weakness_ ,” and Dean spat the word like it physically pained him to say such a thing, “I did something monumentally stupid and I regret it but you know what? It’s not the first or last stupendously dumbass decision I’m gonna make and on some levels I’m actually glad because fuck all knows if I woulda found the goddamn nerve to call and visit you otherwise.” He was shouting at the end, standing in front of Sam arms out to the side and chest heaving. “So are we done here?” he asked icily and Sam knew the share and care moment was over but he still had to ask.

“I was really glad to see you when you came to visit, Dean. But…two years later I told you to leave and not come back. To not call me or bother me or ask me for anything,” Sam said quietly. “How did that make you feel?”

“What are you playing therapist now? I thought you went to college for law not head shrinking,” Dean said scathingly. He grumbled as Sam simply stared at him unyielding. “How does that make you feel?” Dean mimicked. “How the hell do you think that made me feel, Sam? Like crap. But I fucking dealt with it didn’t I?”

Sam nodded and ducked his head. “I'm sorry.”

“Oh God,” Dean said. “I think I used my chick flick quota for the next year,” he muttered then sighed. “I know, Sam. God knows I know, all right? And I don’t blame you. I never blamed you. You wanted normal and I, well I don’t exactly mesh with the idea, you know? And just because you didn’t see _me_ doesn't mean I never came around to see _you_.” He paused a moment, letting Sam absorb his words.

“So...we good here now?” Dean asked gesturing between them. “Got all this shit cleared out. You know, if there’s anything touchy feely you wanna confess now’s the time, kiddo, ‘cause I am not doing this again anytime soon.”

Sam laughed. “Well, actually,” he said grinning as Dean groaned, “there is something. You know when I was thirteen and we were in that little town in Nebraska?”

Dean frowned, confused. “You mean Mineral? We were there for almost a half a year.”

“Yeah,” Sam grinned. “And you know how there was that whole month where I avoided you like the plague?”

“Yeah,” Dean said still obviously having no idea where this was going. “I thought it was a precursor to your angsting teenage ways.”

“It wasn’t. It was because I caught you having sex with Cynthia Gregory.” 

Dean stared at him a moment, then huffed out a loud laugh. “Seriously? Dude, you’re such a prude. It was a beautiful natural act and she was beautiful and a natural if you know what I mean.”

“It was traumatizing,” Sam said. “I mostly repressed it.”

“That’s just because you’re actually a girl, Samantha,” Dean said clapping him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s hit the road. We’re burning starlight.”

Sam laughed. “That’s not the saying, Dean.”

Dean scoffed, “Shut up.”

* * *

“I’m going to visit Sam,” he announced. Over grilled cheese sandwiches of all things. Bobby paused for a moment but eventually took the bite he’d been about to. He chewed and swallowed slowly.

Dean waited, irritatingly feeling like he was awaiting permission though he’d already made up his mind. He was going. Dad couldn’t stop him and neither could Bobby. Calling was one thing; he wanted to see Sammy now.

“Okay,” Bobby said and Dean felt a rush of air blow out of him, and no he definitely had not been holding his breath. “You think that’s a good idea?”

Dean bristled. “Yeah. You gotta fucking problem with it?” It was far more defensive than he had a right to be. And Bobby didn’t deserve that attitude. Dean flushed and lowered his gaze to his plate waiting for the reprimand.

“No, I don’t. Was just asking, boy,” Bobby said standing to move to the sink. “I’m just concerned. Sam wasn’t exactly welcoming on the phone from what I heard. You sure he wants you to visit?”

Dean clenched his jaw, feeling his teeth grind. “It’s just a visit, Bobby. Not like I’m gonna drag him off after a wendigo,” he snapped out and he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

“I just don’t want you getting your heart broken,” Bobby said gruffly and Dean scowled at the insinuation. “What happens if you drive out there and Sam don’t want to see you?”

“Come on, Bobby, this is Sam we’re talking about.”

“I know,” Bobby said turning around to face Dean. “That is exactly my point. What happens to you if you go there and Sam tells you to leave?”

Dean shook his head. “He won’t.”

“What if he does?” Bobby pressed.

“He won’t,” Dean repeated, raising his voice a little. Honestly, if Sam did Dean had exactly zero idea what he’d do. So he was just really, really hoping Sam wouldn’t.

“Dean,” Bobby started. “I love your brother, I do, like my own son, just like you. But he’s just like your daddy sometimes. Can’t see past their own heads, don’t see what their actions do to other people. Don’t see what they do to _you_ ,” he paused as Dean winced. “So I want to know, if you drive out there and Sam kicks you to the curb, what are you going to do?”

Dean closed his eyes and swallowed. “ _If_ that happens then,” he said at length not opening his eyes, unable to look at Bobby as he spoke, “I come back here.” The words are out of his mouth before he even really processed them for what they were. A promise. One made to Bobby and to himself. He wasn’t too sure if he would be able to uphold it. Hoped, fervently, that Sam would never force him to test it because he wasn’t sure he had the resolve left to live without Sam at least somewhere in his life. But he could promise Bobby he’d come back first.

Bobby pursed his lips for a moment, scrutinizing Dean’s face, nodded slowly, apparently having found whatever he’d been looking for, and smiled. “Okay then. When are you leaving?”

“Uh,” Dean said. “I was thinkin’ tomorrow?”

Bobby nodded again. “In that case. I have something for you,” he said then shrugged. “Well, two somethings.”

**Author's Note:**

> I went through a period apparently where a wrote a lot of sad(ish) Dean and Sam stories. Finally decided to post some of them. Maybe I'll post some of the other ones. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and you can find me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com).


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